Once Upon a Kiss

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  The maid turned to face him with a cry of alarm, as though, somehow, she’d forgotten him, and now turned in fright.

  His brows collided in displeasure at her reaction. “I, too, would have you relinquish the name,” he bade her.

  The wench shook her head more frantically still. “Oh, nay, m’lord! Please!”

  Blaec’s eyes slivered, though he retained his calm at her outright refusal. “You have no right to deny me dispensation of justice in my own home,” he reminded her.

  “Do you not mean your brother’s home?” Dominique interjected at once, her tone biting, her eyes narrowing.

  Blaec eyed her keenly, but disregarded the barb, knowing full well that she was baiting him. He refused to be manipulated. He turned to the maid, persisting, “I demand the name.”

  To his disgust, the young woman began to quiver before him. “Oh, m-m’lord... please...”

  “God’s teeth, woman, I cannot believe you would allow the fiend to go unpunished,” he told her scathingly.

  “’T-Twas no one, m’lord,” the maid declared fervently. She fingered her cheek anxiously, averting her gaze. “I-I swear! I merely fell from my bed ’tis all.”

  “Fell from your bed, my arse!”

  “How dare you speak to her so,” Dominique interjected.

  At her censure, Blaec eyed her once more, though with little compunction. He could scarcely credit that the wench was so unwilling to name the culprit. He knew full well that she’d not fallen from her bed, and was on the verge of telling her just so, for he’d witnessed the other bruises, as well, but then he looked at Dominique—truly looked at her—and found his tongue stilled. Only were the maid protecting her lord could she possibly lie so, and in protecting her lord, perhaps she protected her mistress as well. At the look in Dominique’s eyes, he found inexplicably that he could not accuse William with her standing before him looking so distressed.

  His lips curved contemptuously, though he was uncertain which disgusted him most: his sudden weakness toward Dominique, or the maid’s blind devotion to her master. “And what of the gown?” he could not help but point out, turning to eye the maid sharply. “It rent itself on your descent to the floor, I presume?”

  Alyss peered down at the gown in question, as though in a stupor, and then shook her head as she met his gaze once more. “I-I do not know,” she persisted. Panicking at his doubtful expression, she said a little more hysterically, “I-I do not, m’lord!”

  “Leave her be, at last!” Dominique demanded, intervening between them suddenly, her expression fierce. Blaec watched with growing disgust as she enfolded the woman gently within her arms and patted her reassuringly. “Can you not see that you are distressing her?”

  His brow lifted. “Unlike her mistress, it seems, the wench frightens much too easily, demoiselle, for I’ve not threatened her at all. I merely requested to know the name of the miscreant who abused her, so that I might deal with him justly.”

  Dominique’s lashes fell momentarily, thick as smoke upon her creamy cheeks. “Aye, well... she says she does not know.”

  He could tell when her eyes met his once more that she’d drawn the same conclusion he had. Still, he found he could say nothing to accuse her brother, for in her beautiful blue eyes—those eyes that were so much like her despicable sibling’s—he recognized both her acknowledgment and her denial.

  She knew.

  She had to know.

  Yet she lifted her chin, denying, all the same, and dared to command him, “Let her be, my lord.”

  When she’d thought him responsible, she’d been quick enough to speak, yet now he sensed fear that the possibility should be spoken at all. Which led him to wonder if she knew... or whether she merely suspected...

  Could she possibly not know how detestable her brother was?

  To his disgust, he had the overwhelming desire to go to her. Her eyes were wide and liquid suddenly.

  Mesmerizing. God, but he could lose himself in those brilliant blue pools.

  “If you’ve something to say, my lord, say it and be done,” she said breathlessly, her chest heaving softly.

  With fear? grief? anger?

  She looked as though she would burst into tears, yet she did not, and he found that suddenly it did not matter. If she would protect her brother, then so be it. He shook his head, unwilling to press the matter further.

  Even so, he could not quite shed the urge to enfold her into his arms... just as she’d done with the maid... fool that he was, for she was not his to comfort.

  Neither did she need him to comfort her, he reminded himself. It was naught but his fancy that she seemed suddenly wounded, for she was likely as contemptible as her brother— with a heart as black.

  That likelihood hardened his own.

  “Very well,” he relented. “I shall speak plainly.” He gestured toward the maid. “The men of my garrison do not commit such dishonorable acts, for they know well the consequences.”

  The blood seemed to drain from her face even as he watched, yet she surprised him by standing her ground. Her shoulders straightening, she asked him, “Precisely what are you trying to say, my lord?”

  Despite the mettle with which she asked, Blaec spied in her eyes the sudden regret over having asked the question, and so he merely shook his head, telling her simply, ‘The answer is plain, demoiselle. Merely open your eyes and you shall know it.” He turned to the maid. “And you... should you find your memory returns, feel free to seek me,” he told her. And then he turned a nod toward Dominique. “Good day, demoiselle.”

  Dominique gave him no reply, and he didn’t wait to see that she did. Without another word, he took his leave, retrieving the tunic and breeches from the bed, and slamming the heavy ash door behind him—before he could be tempted to tell the impudent wench precisely what he’d meant by the remark; that her brother was an ignoble bastard who not only had the vileness to burn serfs’ huts while they slumbered, but the depravity to beat his own sister’s maid, besides.

  Blaec wanted nothing more than to throttle Beauchamp with his bare hands.

  He made a fist at his side, for more than that, even, and more than before, he was determined to see this farce ended once and for all. Graeham would not wed Dominique Beauchamp—not, even, if Blaec should die trying to prevent it. He refused to consider that his own motives might be somewhat less pure.

  He only knew that, at all costs, he was determined to keep Beauchamp’s sister from his brother’s bed.

  At all costs.

  Chapter 8

  By all that was holy, Graeham intended to keep Dominique Beauchamp out of his bed. The problem was... he wasn’t certain how to do it—not when her own brother was forcing her upon him.

  He’d spent the better part of the morning in prayer, and now as he made his way up to his chamber, his heart was heavy with uncertainty. Truly, he’d thought he’d made the right decision. His people could not endure more of this treachery. He’d believed this alliance with Beauchamp would put an end to the raids, but now it seemed he was mistaken. Blaec was certain Beauchamp was responsible, and Graeham couldn’t argue against it.

  Other than Beauchamp, he could not fathom who else might lead raids against his villages. And yet Beauchamp would seem to have little motive, when, through his sister, his blood would some day hold these lands. Graeham simply could not conceive that William would risk it, for it made little sense to toss away the gold in one’s hand merely to snatch at the possibility of more. Yet there didn’t seem to be anyone else.

  The one thing that was clear to him now was that he found he could not bear to break his sacred vow, not when it seemed no good would come of it. Despite a vow of celibacy, he’d agreed to the alliance with Beauchamp because he’d considered the greater good; an end to their private war. It was the poor man’s thatch that went up in flames with each retaliation, and so if it meant spending all eternity in hell for the sake of his people, he would have joyfully done so. But he’d be damned if he’d
do so for naught.

  His chest aching from both the remnants of smoke in his lungs and the anguish of his uncertainty, he shoved open the door to his chamber and found his brother waist-deep in the carved wooden tub that had once belonged to their father, and to his father before him—their noble grandsire who had ridden beside the Conqueror himself. It was he who had first called this English land home. And then the Conqueror had died, and under his youngest son the land had been bathed in the blood of treachery—a treachery even Graeham felt tainted with, despite that the betrayal was not his own.

  It was enough that he lived the lie.

  Seeing Blaec now, bathing in a borrowed chamber, with no maid to lave him as was his due, Graeham felt his gut twist with guilt, but he put on a brighter face, masking his torment from his brother’s fatigued, shadow-rimmed eyes. Again, last night, Blaec had guarded his back with the same fierce determination as a wild boar facing a hunter.

  “I’m pleased to see you took my advice,” Graeham said.

  Wearily, Blaec cast a glance over his shoulder and smiled grimly. “As you so indelicately pointed out... we wouldn’t wish to offend our guests, now would we? For your sake, my brother, a bath was the least I could do.”

  Graeham chuckled as he tossed his helm upon the massive bed. “You do too much,” he remarked, removing his gauntlets and snapping them against his leg. He cast them alongside his helm. “At any rate... since when do you listen to me?”

  Blaec conceded a chuckle. He ran a hand through his black mane, sighing, and then laid his head back against the rim of the tub to stare up at the ceiling.

  Graeham sat upon the bed. It shrank beneath his weight with an ominous creak. “We still cannot know for certain it was Beauchamp,” he said after a moment.

  Blaec continued to stare at the ceiling. “Nay,” he agreed. “Not as yet... but I intend to find out before the day is done.”

  ‘Truly?” Graeham’s eyes narrowed with interest. “How?”

  “One of the villagers claims to have wounded one of the bastards during their escape.”

  At last Blaec turned to face him, resting his scarred cheek upon the wide rim of the tub. The memory of the blow that had marred his brother’s face was yet another constant source of regret for Graeham. Their father had taken great pleasure in stepping in and offering Blaec the colee, the traditional first blow given a knight, striking him unmercifully hard with the hilt of the very sword he’d later presented to Graeham. The gash had been deep, and though the blood had run thickly down his cheek, Blaec had knelt proudly, his back straight, and had received it without so much as a word of complaint. But Graeham had seen the gut-wrenching sorrow in his eyes. And behind those eyes... he’d spied the little boy who had so long craved his father’s embrace.

  It was never forthcoming. To his distress, Graeham had always been his father’s son, and Blaec little more than an inconvenience. It didn’t matter that Graeham would change it were he able to, it was as it was. His hand went to his sword hilt, and he lifted the old relic from his scabbard, tracing his bare thumb over the inscription along the blade. INNOMINEDOMINI: In the name of God. How incongruous.

  “So … to whom do we owe such a debt of gratitude?” Graeham asked. He could not begin to fathom how it was that Blaec could look at him with affection, much less the devotion he gave. He didn’t deserve it.

  Blaec’s answering grin was wily. “The carpenter’s wife,” he disclosed with obvious relish.

  “Sweet Maude?” Graeham’s tone was incredulous.

  Blaec chuckled. “One and the very same. It seems they caught her husband with his breeches down.”

  Graeham’s brows knit. “Surely you jest?”

  Again Blaec chuckled, only this time with considerably more humor. “Nay, and to hear Adam tell it, she climbed down from atop him like a madwoman, shoved down her skirts, and ran to the window with a wood axe, flinging it out at the nearest rider.” His grin widened. “Apparently it left the premise imbedded within the rider’s face.”

  “Ye God!” Graeham shuddered at the image that came to mind.

  “My sentiments precisely.”

  “I believe I shall never tease the wench again,” Graeham vowed, shuddering again. “In fact, perhaps we should recruit her.”

  Blaec smiled morosely. “Certainly she’s fared better against those fiends than any of our men have managed thus far.”

  Graeham sighed. “A rather sad fact, but true.”

  “At any rate,” Blaec continued, “last night it was much too dark to search the adjoining woods, but I thought perhaps today... we would invite our guests on a... hunt?”

  Graeham’s brows lifted. He nodded. “I should very much like to see Beauchamp’s face if we were to happen upon a body,” he admitted.

  “‘Tis settled then.”

  “Aye,” Graeham agreed. Lifting himself from the bed, he made his way to the door, re-sheathing his sword. “I suppose I shall go extend the invitation to our guest,” he proposed. And pray he’s found blameless, he thought silently. For everyone’s sake he hoped Beauchamp was not responsible.

  “Be certain to invite your bride,” Blaec called after him, his tone sardonic.

  Graeham stopped and turned. “Of course,” he said, but his brows knit.

  Something about the way Blaec had called her his bride caught his attention, and he stood there considering his dutiful brother a long moment. He’d been watching those two together and even a blind man could detect the undercurrents between them. And suddenly he grinned, for he knew precisely how to extricate himself from his entanglement. Inadvertently he’d already stumbled upon the answer. Blaec was right, though Graeham would never admit it. Out of guilt, he had inadvertently been casting the two of them together.

  Even if William was guilty, he reasoned, in all likelihood his sister was not, for she didn’t strike him as a treacherous shrew. Loyal to her brother, she might be, but her outburst yesterday evening when they’d considered the fate of William’s messenger had told him much.

  Aye... what better way to shed himself of his burden?

  Indeed, and if all settled itself well, then it would go considerably easier when he spoke to Stephen later. He’d long vowed to do so, but it was past time, and as he shut the door behind him, and Blaec settled back into the massive tub, Graeham felt remarkably lighter in spirit.

  Lighter than he had in ages.

  Dominique managed to wait until both she and Alyss were respectfully dressed, but she couldn’t hold back any longer. When Alyss lifted up a comb from Dominique’s possessions in order to dress her hair, Dominique removed it from her hands, returning it to the table.

  “Alyss,” she began, her tone grave, “you must tell me who did this to you.” Gently, wincing at the sight of the bruise, she reached to touch Alyss’ cheek. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

  Alyss fidgeted uncomfortably. “Nay, m’lady... there is nothing for you to be sorry for.” Gently she removed Dominique’s hand from her face, as though heartily uncomfortable with the ministrations. “I do thank you, but ’tis just as I said... I fell from my bed whilst I slept.”

  Dropping her hand at her side, Dominique averted her face, turning from Alyss toward the shuttered window. “Dear God, Alyss... how can you expect me to accept such a tale? As much as it pains me to agree with a single word Blaec d’Lucy might utter, I cannot believe that tale any more than he did.”

  “Twas kind of him to consider me,” Alyss interjected.

  Dominique’s brows collided as she whirled to face her maid. “Kind? I can think of much to call that man, but kind is not one of them!”

  Alyss nodded impassionedly. “Aye, m’lady! In truth, he would not have been so angry were he not concerned. Only think of it... would he have spent long hours without sleep, battling fires, when he could have sent his men out, instead, and then gone to bed without a backward thought? Could he not as easily have dealt with the fire this morn? Aye,” she affirmed, seeing that Dominique considered he
r words, “That blaze did not threaten the donjon and were he not so concerned for his people, he’d have done precisely so!” She looked wistful a moment, wringing her hands, and then said, “Tis fortunate, you are, indeed, for Graeham is not only kind and handsome, but he is gentle as well. Only would that I...” She halted on a sob, her gaze skidding toward Dominique.

  Dominique hesitated, her eyes misting, but only an instant, for no matter that she dreaded the question, she had to ask, “Was it my brother, Alyss? Was it William?” Her hand clenched at her breast. “Did he do this to you?”

  Alyss’ eyes widened. “Oh, nay, m’lady!” She gave a little squeak of alarm and shook her head adamantly. “Nay!” At once she made the sign of the cross. “God preserve us both—nay, m’lady—how could you even think so?”

  Relief washed over Dominique. Still, she had to ask, had to know for certain, “Are you telling me the truth, Alyss?”

  Alyss opened her mouth to speak and then closed it, lowering her face as though taking offense with the question. An instant later, she lifted her chin, and said with certitude, her eyes devoid of emotion, “It was not your lord brother, m’lady.”

  “Who then?”

  Alyss shook her head determinedly. “You must forgive me, I cannot say.”

  A knock sounded at the door, interrupting them.

  Dominique and Alyss both turned as the door creaked opened. That was something these two brothers seemed to share in common, Dominique thought crossly as Graeham’s face appeared in the doorway. Neither seemed to care one whit for even the smallest of courtesies. God’s love, but she was beginning to truly regret this unholy alliance.